


Text

by Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My frequent co-author kahvi challenged me to write a fic based on <a href="http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_llnhqmKDu91qffb7lo1_500.jpg">this</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Text

All right. Sherlock did drugs.

Well, it wasn't 'all right,' was it? But there isn't a handy phrase in English for 'deal with one utterly nutty thing your flatmate does at a time,' so John decided this one would have to do.

So, yes. He did drugs. Ecstasy, primarily, as far as John could tell from the way he acted afterwards, and Sherlock's penchant for a gay party drug in particular was just one more thing John would have to file under 'things to worry about later.'

Sherlock also went through John's things, which was a bit much. The man could deduce John's mental state, choice of lunch, prevailing thoughts, and lubricant preference without breaking into his computer, so why did he bother? "Practice," Sherlock had told him, loftily, and when John asked if he should just take the password off of his laptop to make the 'practice' a little less alluring, Sherlock had told him not to be an idiot and asked when he would just finish his damn CV and what was the appeal of women with strap-ons? At the look John gave him, Sherlock muttered something about deleting browsing histories not being all it's cracked up to be, and turned up the Bunsen burner.

But John had to draw the line somewhere, and being baked off your knickers was only so much excuse. He slept with his mobile on his bedside table, and was not a heavy sleeper, so that was only one more factor in the general strangeness of the whole situation.

It was only luck that he noticed it at all; he was cleaning out his random files - the lousy, meaningless snapshots he took simply because the phone had a camera, and he felt like he should test it out. In the media folder, however, there had been a video. John had frowned - he had never used the video function. Yet there it was, dated the night before... John had watched it.

* * *

Sherlock was not in the flat, but John had heard him muttering something about the mortuary when he had swept out dramatically earlier that morning, and so John made the trek. Sherlock was indeed there, bent over a human arm that looked like hit had been violently ripped off of its owner, painstakingly removing a skin sample with a scalpel.

John intentionally made some noise with the door as he entered, but Sherlock did not look up. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock continued to stare at the skin slice, lifting it delicately from the arm with a pair of tweezers. John sighed. "Sherlock..."

"Not now, John, I'm busy." Sherlock put the slice carefully atop a slide.

"That's a pity, really, because this can't wait." John was in no mood.

"Yes, it can." Sherlock dispensed stain from a pipetteman onto the slice.

"That arm isn't going anywhere, either," John countered, stubbornly.

"Just because it's dead doesn't mean it's not important." Sherlock tilted the slide to spread the dye. "Fine, make it quick."

"I just found a video on my phone from last night of you yelling, "You can't fuck me!" at least 20 times."

"Thirty-six. Don't you observe at all?"

"It doesn't matter _exactly_ how many times. You need to stop taking drugs and doing this kind of random shit, you know. And..." John jiggled his phone in his hand, agitated, "breaking into my computer is bad enough. Leave my phone alone."

"Of course it matters. And I didn't." Sherlock carefully placed the slide back into the plastic container.

"You _did_." John felt annoyance coming on. "For fuck's sake, it's on my _phone_..."

"I didn't take drugs last night. Do try to keep up!" Sherlock turned his gaze, finally, to John.

This was not a stare that was conducive to thought. "You... what?" Sherlock had done that straight? Well, maybe not the right term...

Sherlock sighed and turned away, shaking his head. "You just don't think, do you? Now shove off, I need to focus."

No drugs? Then "Why..."

"Do you _want_ to fuck me?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.

John choked. "I... what? I'm... What are you on about? I'm straight!"

"So is there anything you disagree with?"

"I... that's not..." The conversation had taken an abrupt bend, and John felt like he had skidded off into the weeds. Fucking Sherlock? He... he wasn't - of course not, and Sherlock had said he wasn't interested in the first place, and... what?

"Look, until I say something that you disagree with - could you leave me alone for ten fucking minutes? I can't focus when you're hovering over my shoulder." Sherlock frowned at the specimen.

A few minutes later, John somehow found himself out on the street again, surrounded by people who did not beat corpses, who did not store body parts in the fridge, did not leave strange messages on his cell phone, and who he could, presumably, fuck.

How dull.


End file.
